Stricklend searches the throng for another who is necessary to his plans. At last he sees the tall, angular figure of the seventh duke of Radnor, glass of champagne in hand, already a little unsteady on his feet and evidently more interested in drinking than waltzing. Frederick Robert Wellington Montgomery can pass muster at the glance, but will fall woefully short of the mark under closer inspection. His skin has about it the fragility of one whose health is compromised. His jet-black hair is not fashionably floppy, but lackluster and lank. His eyes are at once restless and weary. If Stricklend were given to pity he might feel some for this somewhat pathetic creature, for his lot in life was not of his choosing. But a stronger young man would rise to the challenges of being born into witchery, necromancy, and aristocracy. Freddie Montgomery is weak, and Stricklend can find not the smallest iota of sympathy for one who had so much given him, and fell to weakness. Still, his flaws will prove useful to the Sentinels, and for that the permanent private secretary finds himself grudgingly grateful.

He checks his pocket watch and then turns toward the main entrance to the ballroom. At precisely fifteen minutes past ten, a strikingly glamorous young woman with a winning smile and an appealing swagger to her hips enters the room. She looks up at the gallery and sees him. Stricklend tucks the gold watch back into his waistcoat pocket and gives her a single but definite nod. She returns the gesture, and scours the room, taking out her fan, which she works coquettishly beneath her dark eyes. At length she finds her target and sashays between the guests until she stands directly behind Freddie. Stricklend watches as the woman taps him lightly on the shoulder. The young man turns, sees her, takes in the risqué loveliness of her, and smiles back. Within moments she has him laughing and stroking the back of her hand. Seconds later the pair thread their way, arm in arm, through the throng, and leave the ballroom together.

Satisfied, Stricklend adjusts his jacket minutely and quits the gallery, taking the ornate spiral staircase which descends to the dance floor. The waltz comes to an end, amid much gloved clapping, and is quickly followed by a minuet. Ladies study their dance cards. Men hurry this way and that looking for their partners. As Lilith turns about in search of her brother, as Stricklend knew she would, he moves forward and presents himself with a low bow.

“Lady Lilith, Lord Frederick has asked me to tell you he has had to step out for a moment, and so regrets he will not be able to partner you for the second dance as he promised.”

Lilith regards the stranger before her with puzzlement.

“Had to step out? Step out where?”

“Oh, not from the ball entirely. He promised you will see him shortly.”

“Oh. I see.”